


Headlong

by girahimu_sama



Series: Unfinished Business-verse [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Citronshipping, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Thiefshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9087703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girahimu_sama/pseuds/girahimu_sama
Summary: Picking oneself up after returning from the furthest reaches of darkness can prove to be borderline impossible, but sometimes the most important thing is to try. Follow up to Unfinished Business. No movie spoilers





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate summary: Malik finds his selfless act is not so easily appreciated and much angst ensues. Bakura is an idiot.
> 
> The reason I chose to separate this oneshot from the other one is because it has a very different pacing. Anyways, enjoi

Terribly mundane. That was the only way Malik could describe the events following his return from the shadows. Kaiba had taken back his device and Malik was left with an unconscious, surprisingly small bundle in his arms swathed in a red cloak. It shouldn't have been so ordinary – he'd just ripped a three thousand years dead man straight out of the jaws of Ammit – and yet it was just another day passing by.

 

Malik should have been used to it by now. Battle City, wielding the powers of darkness – all of it was becoming a distant memory. Now he was just another person, and so was Bakura – as much as the latter didn't look the part. Like the drop from a high, the two of them spun back down into reality, though Bakura's descent was far less graceful.

 

The sun was setting by the time Malik arrived back at his apartment, having to set Bakura down to open the door. Any and all stares he may have received on his trek home went ignored. He couldn't have cared less about a few weird looks from irrelavent eyes after all he'd endured. At least Kaiba had been charitable enough to give him a ride home.

 

Scooping Bakura up again, he headed inside, depositing him on the bed in the guest bedroom. He was a jarring addition to the environment – white walls, curtains, a simple closet, and finally, a red-clad outlaw from the distant past. The laws of the universe had decidedly been broken, and Malik could only shake his head with a little smirk playing at his lips.

 

It had begun to occur to him that Bakura would need food, and clothing that didn't come from an era several millennia ago – things Malik had never even considered the spirit needing before. Then again, he wasn't a spirit any longer, was he?

 

After making sure Bakura was comfortably in bed, Malik headed to the kitchen to begin fixing up something for both himself and his unconventional house guest. He was just about to place the fish on the burner when he felt eyes on him, movement from the entryway catching his attention. He turned his head to see Bakura with his shoulder leaned against the wall, and a strange tension filled the air.

 

“I never asked you to...” Bakura's voice was quiet and hoarse as he raised his eyes to look Malik in the face. He coughed to clear his throat, his voice sounding the same even if it wasn't from Ryou's mouth. “I never asked you to save me.”

 

Malik shrugged like ripping someone out of the darkness was such a casual thing to do.

 

“It's not a thank you but I suppose that's as close as it gets.” Malik nodded to the stove, unable to be assed with Bakura's lack of gratitude. “You want some dinner? Those shadows were harsh on your body.”

 

His offer went completely ignored. Bakura seemed taken off balance by his first statement, gradually finding his feet again.

 

“You expected a thank you from me?” A note of incredulity entered his words, voice growing louder, stronger. “Malik, I was done. I was almost done.” He staggered forward, eyes wide, almost fearful. “I was so close to forgetting everything. I was so close to just–”

 

Malik turned on him, pinning him with a firm gaze. He should have expected Bakura to be stubborn about this.

 

“Shut up,” he growled back. “Did you even see yourself? You looked awful, Bakura. I couldn't just leave you like that. _No one_ deserves that.”

 

His words were like setting off a switch. Bakura gripped at his own chest like something had cracked inside of him, expression twisting in pain.

 

“I do! I lost everything! I failed!” He cried, edging closer as he used the counter for balance. “You knew what I was after, Malik! I was ready to face oblivion! And you just drag me back into existence like it's nothing!”

 

Malik's eyes widened, the claim striking him hard for a moment. He'd never imagined a rescue would be this unwanted.

 

But he had no room for regrets or doubts. Turning away from the stovetop, he faced Bakura completely.

 

“I know what it's like, you know. Wanting to die.” He began, staring at a tile on the kitchen floor. Bakura eyed him cautiously, very much resembling an animal about to bolt. “If it weren't for my brother, I wouldn't be here right now. Hell, if it weren't for my other personality, I wouldn't be here either.”

 

He paused for a moment, considering what he wanted to say. Bakura probably wouldn't listen to him but he had to try.

 

“Maybe I never chewed on my vengeance as long as you have. Maybe I never let a dark god into my soul.” Another pause as Malik raised his head, pinning Bakura with a steadfast look as he repeated the words his brother had used when he'd saved him from the darkness. “But it isn't through death that people go into the light. There is only light in life. You have a choice now, Bakura.” He moved forward, hands finding Bakura's shoulders, grip firm. “If destiny never wanted for you to have peace, then you can take it back. You can chase your own light. You can _live._ ”

 

Bakura looked as though Malik had asked him to fling himself headlong over a cliffside, only what lay at the bottom was much more terrifying than churning waters or jagged rocks. He didn't even react as Malik grabbed him, too paralyzed as he tried to process what was being said.

 

“I was never meant to...” He uttered, horrified. “I don't deserve...”

 

“Maybe I'm just selfish as hell and wanted someone to keep me company through this mundane thing called life.” Malik's grip relaxed and he risked a smile. “... I missed you, Bakura.”

 

Bakura continued staring at him like he'd grown another head. “You can't just... You should hate me.” His tone grew distressed. “Are you joking with me right now, Malik?”  
  
“Don't get me wrong, I'm still pissed about that shit you pulled with Zorc. What the hell were you thinking with that?” Malik's expression dropped back into something more neutral, and then it softened. It wasn't like Bakura had succeeded. If anything, he was glad he was still around to be mad about it. “... But I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing in your shoes.”

 

Malik didn't know what he'd do without his family, and perhaps that was what gave him the hope that Bakura could be saved. Bakura was what happened when you took everything away from someone and left them to rot. If there was a chance, no matter how slim, that the damage done could be reversed, then Malik would cling to it with all he had.

 

After all, a chance was what saved him from the shadows as well.

 

But Bakura seemed to be slipping. He was dazed, unsteady as he pulled back from Malik's grip.

 

“You can't...” The words trailed off into a whisper as Bakura's eyes began to close, his knees folding like paper.

 

“Bakura...?!”

 

Malik's eyes widened as the man crumpled before him, a resounding _thump_ filling the kitchen as his head hit the counter on the way down. Malik rushed forward, catching his shoulders just before he could drop to the floor completely.

 

That was one way to end a conversation.

....

 

Bakura came to sometime later, after Malik had brought him back to the bed in the spare room. He had a bruise on his forehead but it didn't look serious – hell, it definitely wasn't serious considering he had such a thick skull.

 

“You passed out.” Malik said from his perch on the bed's edge. “The shadows fucked you up good, but I'm sure the lack of food and water isn't helping.”

 

Bakura peered up at him through his bangs, eyebrows drawing together. It was odd. The only real difference between his and Ryou's faces was that the Thief King's features were more broad.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

Malik couldn't say he expected anything else, but he sighed anyway. “Did everything I said earlier go through one ear and out the other?” He reached for the glass of water he'd brought in with him, handing it by the rim to the other man. “Here, you need to–”

 

It was slapped out of his hand an instant later, water arcing against the opposite wall as the glass landed with a thunk against the carpet. Bakura glared at him, teeth bared. “I'm not your goddamn plaything.”

 

Malik's eyes darkened as he flicked a few droplets out of his hair. He should have punched Bakura for that but he was consciously making an effort not to let his anger get the better of him. A huge effort. “No, but you are an insufferable prick.”

 

He was beginning to notice that Bakura's glare was defensive, his eyes flitting across Malik's face in a manner that was almost uneasy. “Then why did you save me?”

 

Malik rolled his eyes. “Gods, are you intentionally playing stupid or did you just hit your head really hard when you fainted?”

 

“Fuck you!” Bakura snapped. “If you think you can keep me as some sort of pet, I'll fucking–”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?!” Malik glared back at him incredulously. How had Bakura come to such a conclusion? “Is it so hard to believe that someone could care about you, Bakura?”

 

“You – don't – care!” Bakura's voice pitched in volume, surprising Malik once more. “I'm not some scapegoat for your guilt, Ishtar!” Bakura began clawing at the blankets, pulling himself towards the far edge of the bed. “I want to leave. I want to...”

 

As soon as he'd climbed off, he staggered, and Malik once again had to come to his rescue.

 

“Take it easy.” Malik's arms worked to steady him, guiding back to lay down.

 

“Don't touch me...!” Bakura sounded wounded and miserable, weakly trying to shove Malik's hands away.

 

“I'm just making sure you don't pass out again, idiot.” Malik pressed Bakura onto the bed, hands lingering at his shoulders for a while. “I'm not trying to hurt you, alright?” He imagined returning from the darkness wouldn't be easy on anyone, but damn. Only when it looked like Bakura had given up struggling did Malik let him go and stand up.

 

“This is the room my siblings would stay in when they visit, but you can have it now. I'll leave you alone for a while.” He paused when he reached the doorway. “I'm not going to force you to eat, but it would be a pain to have gone through all of this effort only for you to die again, wouldn't it?”

 

Bakura said nothing. In fact, he wasn't even looking at him anymore, curled towards the wall instead. Malik sighed, tossing one more glance over his shoulder before he left the room.

...

 

It was the silence that truly did him in, wormed into his skull, twisting and fracturing everything in its path. Silence brought empty space. Empty space brought thought. A steady trickle at first, and then a continuous flow. A river, swelling and crashing and roaring until it was deafening, consuming him in ways the darkness never had.

 

Zorc was almost more merciful, sinking far deeper than his skin, into his mind, into his very soul. Soaking through until there was no room for anything but acrimony. And now the murky waters had receded and everything lay bare before him, crystal clear. No buffer. It was strewn about around him in pieces, shattered glass polished by the tides.

 

His anger, still burning and as intense as it had ever been, licked at him. About as useful as a rusted knife now. He'd plunge it into the Pharaoh's heart regardless.

 

But there was no Pharaoh. No Items. No Zorc. Only him and the space that he occupied. His limbs, his body, his breathing as it hissed out of him. What good was any of it? Grief, rage, fury – it had no where to go, boiling under his flesh, eating him from the inside out. Who was he without the Ring's power? Without the stolen body he'd occupied? His own bones felt foreign to him. Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt obscenely _wrong._

 

And there was Malik, and perhaps he should have plunged the knife into him instead.

 

But that felt wrong too. Everything felt wrong and nothing felt right. He shouldn't have been here. Malik should have left him to rot in the shadows, then everything would have made sense.

 

Because he wouldn't be living – as Malik had so thoughtlessly asked of him. He wouldn't be breathing. He wouldn't be _thinking_.

 

Who was he without the goal that had dominated his entire existence? His chance was gone, ashes scattered to the wind.

 

Time meant nothing. The white walls and the feel of cotton against his cheek meant nothing to him. He remained curled up on the bed for what could have been days. Years even. Thoughts blurred together, continuous white noise, and eventually exhaustion crept up on him.

 

Sleep was even less merciful than wakefulness. Ash filled his throat, screams filled his ears, and for a while he world was nothing but fire and gold. The same memory on repeat, never changing.

 

And then Malik's face was before him again, concern drawing his brows together. Bakura would have clawed it off if he had the strength. Instead, all he could do was shake and sob. When he'd started crying, he couldn't even remember.

 

“You were screaming,” Malik said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Bakura remembered this. They'd been here before, but he'd already told Malik about his village so he had nothing to say this time. Strangely, he felt all the fight leave him, eyes dull as he stared back at him. The silence had taken something from him, and the nightmare was the hammer on top of the final nail. He looked dead. He could have been dead.

 

He wished he was dead.

 

...

 

For two days, Bakura didn't move. He wanted to rest – permanently – but even Malik would deny him that. He could feel hands forcing him to sit up but he had no strength or will to do anything about it.

 

Malik sighed, throwing an almost mournful glance at the untouched food, another meal having long since grown cold at this point. “You need to eat.”

 

Maybe the responding ache in Bakura's gut was harder to ignore when he occupied his own living flesh, but that didn't mean he was going to listen to it. He wasn't even looking at Malik anymore, head tilted forward with his empty gaze settled on his lap. His hands curled into loose fists at his sides.

 

Malik was staring at him uneasily – he could feel it, by the Gods he could feel it – and it should have infuriated him all over again, but the most he managed was a slight huff through his nose.

 

“I'll go heat this up.”

 

Bakura wanted to snap at him to not even bother, but the words wouldn't come. Malik stood up and left the room, returning what felt like seconds later. He sat down, set the tray aside again. Bakura didn't care; he still wasn't going to eat.

 

He wasn't going to. That was what he told himself. And then Malik reached for the bowl of rice. Something in his brain had shut off, and all he could do was allow the other man to bring a bite to his mouth. His lips parted, and he barely tasted the food as it went down. It was an automatic, methodical process chewing and swallowing, body seeming to recognize that it needed food on some primal level.

 

He didn't know what Malik was doing, why he'd wound both of their prides like this, but he couldn't stop it either. He was tired, so tired.

 

Bakura crumbled, hitting the wall and shattering. It was a surprise he'd lasted so long running on empty. Hate had kept him alive before, purpose. But what purpose did he have now? He may as well have been sand blowing away in the wind.

 

Malik was still feeding him bit by bit, until Bakura curled in on himself, bowing his head. And then Malik's arms were wrapping around him and he didn't know what else to do. He didn't even have the energy to sob anymore.

 

For whatever reason, he allowed Malik to hold him like that until morning.

 

...

 

Laying in the dark had worked when he was a spirit residing in the Ring but, evidently, that didn't remain the case.

 

Too much of anything made one restless, even crippling depression. It was a slow and gradual change that took place over the course of the next several weeks. Bakura would appear, so fleetingly Malik barely caught sight of him. He'd managed to change out of his Thief King attire – Malik suspected he wanted to distance himself from it, understandably. Food began disappearing from the fridge and cupboards, though Malik never saw him take any. The signs of there being a second occupant in the house were little, but there.

 

One day Malik came home from an outing, and was surprised to find Bakura on the couch instead of in his room. He appeared to be watching TV, though he didn't look all that invested in whatever he was watching. When he saw Malik, he pushed himself up and began heading back down the hall without a word.

 

Malik stifled a sigh, sick of the tension that had built up between them. He decided he'd given Bakura enough time, and opened his mouth to call out.

 

“You don't have to go.” He said, moving to take a seat on the couch. He patted the spot beside him. “Come, sit.”

 

Bakura paused, cocking his head to peer back over his shoulder. “I'm not your dog.”

 

“No, you're more like a mangy cat.” Malik offered a grin, but Bakura merely turned back around and continued to his room. “Wait! It was a joke, Bakura.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Malik pushed himself to his feet again, starting after the other man.

 

“Does everything have to be a battle with you?”

 

Bakura rounded on him so sharply it was almost jarring seeing such ire from him after the period of silence they'd trudged through.

 

“Well, I'm sorry your little rehabilitation project isn't up to your standards!” He shouted, eyes blazing, resentfully trained on Malik. “Not all of us can forgive and forget so goddamn easily.”

 

Malik just stood there for a moment before incredulity gave way to his own volatile temper. “Is that what you think this is about?”

 

Bakura met his glare evenly. “Isn't it?”

 

“You think it's been easy for me?” Malik demanded. Bakura glowered at him, turning to leave with a scoff, but Malik easily crossed the distance between them and grabbed his arm. He shoved Bakura back against the wall, leaving no other options for him. It was impossible to know what the idiot was thinking, but Malik was determined to prove that whatever skewed assumptions he made were dead wrong. “No, you're not running away this time. We're going to talk.”

 

Bakura's unruly hair – somehow even messier than his host's had been – shielded his eyes. “There's nothing to talk about. You wasted your time.”

 

Malik's gaze lost some of its edge. “Is it really so bad allowing yourself the space to heal?”

 

Bakura grit his teeth, body rigid with tension. “I don't deserve it. I failed.”

 

“Your family would have been released when the door to the afterlife was opened. They've moved on.” Malik's hands found his shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. “You need to as well.”

 

“Well I can't!” Bakura cried, stubborn until the end and beyond. It was as sad as it was frustrating. “Why won't you leave me alone?”

 

“Because I care about you, you idiot!”

 

Both of their eyes rounded. Perhaps Malik shouldn't have been surprised at himself, but showing through action was different than telling in words. Bakura still needed it spelled out for him. Malik shook his head with a ragged huff, attempting to knock some sense into the other man.

 

“You honestly think I could have left you alone after hearing the fucked up shit that happened to you and your village? Gods, you're so fucking dense and...” Malik could see he'd stunned the fight out of Bakura for now, his own shoulders slumping as his energy drained away. “... Just... sit with me for a while.”

 

Bakura peered up at him wordlessly for a few moments, eyes mistrustfully searching his face. He grumbled, pushing Malik's hands away from him.

 

“If it'll get you to fuck off quicker.”

 

Malik snorted, turning to move back to the couch. “Charming as always.”

 

“I don't pretend to be.” Bakura slumped onto the other side of the couch, as far away from Malik as possible.

 

“We both know that's a lie. I've seen you pull it off when you have to.”

 

Bakura didn't respond save for another quiet glower. Malik would have expected some smart innuendo to be shot back at him, for them to verbally go at it and see where the conversation would lead, but they'd played that game too many times before. Bakura clearly wasn't in the mood now. Malik made do with reaching for the remote for the television that was still running. Why had Bakura been on a shopping channel of all things?

 

“At least choose something entertaining...” Malik muttered more to himself than anything. Then, louder, added, “Any preferences?”  
  
“No.”

 

Malik shrugged and switched to another program of his taste. Mindlessly watching television was something he'd grown accustomed to shortly after Battle City and he'd developed some preferences. It wasn't exactly how he wanted to spend his new life, but the sudden heaps of free time combined with the crippling sense of having his entire life's purpose turned on its heel left him without the energy to do much else. At least it was an easy escape.

 

Before long, the program had ended. Malik turned his head to look at Bakura to gauge how he was doing, but Bakura wasn't looking at the screen. A set of pale grey-blue eyes stared back at him. “Is this what you do all the time? Watch TV?”

 

Malik was surprised Bakura was the one to speak first, but he didn't show it, merely shaking his head. “No. I build custom bikes – mostly.”

 

To his surprise, Bakura actually cracked half a smirk, one side of his lips twitching up. “Right, your bike paraphilia,” he sneered. “Nearly killed me several times over with that.”

 

“You're so dramatic.” Malik rolled his eyes, but he couldn't resist smirking back at him. “I could take you for a spin sometime if you wanted.”

 

“Fuck no.”

 

Malik grabbed a throw pillow and slung it at him. “You're so boring.”

 

Bakura slapped it out of the air with a growl. “So are you.”

 

“Don't you want company when you're bored?” Malik leaned back against the arm of the couch, resting his chin in his hand. Bakura went silent, gaze drifting away from him. “Do you wanna do _anything_ with your life?”

 

Bakura jut his lip out petulantly, a frustrated noise huffing out of him. “What is there to do?”

 

Malik glanced around the room, gaze finally landing on a pen and pad laying on the table, the one he used to jot down quick reminders.

 

“Here.” He tossed the items at Bakura. “Draw me something.”

 

When Bakura only looked at him like he'd grown another head, Malik raised a brow expectantly. “I know you can draw. I've seen it before.” His lips tugged up in a tiny smile. “How much of that is Ryou's?”  
  
Bakura seemed to view Malik as the most tiring thing before him at this very moment, rolling his eyes. “What do you think?”

 

“Just wondering if you have any artisan roots.” Malik shrugged. Bakura sighed.

 

“Whatever. I can't think of anything to draw anyway.”

 

Malik gave a disappointed frown, finding that hard to believe. Bakura had scrawled so much for him in the past, and he was decent at it too. For example, Malik had a good idea of what the Thief King looked like even before he'd seen him in person.

 

He offered Bakura another smile. “Me?”

 

“Ah, there's your vanity.” Bakura snorted, not looking very amused. A moment later, he seemed to have a change of heart and dug between the cushions for the fallen pen. “You know what? Give me the damn pen.”

 

Malik perked up a little, surprised Bakura had agreed so easily. “You sure you don't want something better to draw with then?”

 

“No, just stay still.” Bakura jabbed his thumb out and squeezed one eye shut, mock measuring his proportions. “Yeah, perfect.” Soon the room was filled with the sounds of the pen swiping across the paper. “One other thing. You can only look at the finished product after I leave.”

 

Malik shrugged. Bakura was finished faster than Malik had expected, his expression smug and biting as he slowly set the pad face down on the coffee table. After dropping the pen beside it with exaggerated precision, Bakura got to his feet and stepped around the couch, taking his leave and disappearing down the hall. Malik watched him go, hearing the door slam before he finally leaned over to pick up the pad.

 

The juvenile, scribbled thing could hardly be called pleasant to look at with its blown out, offensive proportions and exaggerated features. Malik was almost flattered; it was a personalized 'fuck you' directly from the artist himself, probably meant to piss him off, but it was hard to be angry at how utterly ridiculous it was. He wouldn't give Bakura the satisfaction of hearing him fume anyway.

 

“You really think my dick is that small?” He called out, snickering and shaking his head. “I'd _love_ to prove you wrong on that.”

 

Bakura lashing out in immaturity didn't faze him. If anything, he was glad his house guest even had the energy to jest to begin with. It may not have been much, but it was something.

 

When Malik received no response, he merely snorted and tore the drawing out of the pad, folding it up and tucking the evidence into his pocket.

 

...

 

Malik came back to himself slowly, the breath raggedly huffing out of him. Half the kitchen was in shambles, broken dishes strewn about everywhere, the pot on the stove overturned. He hardly remembered how it had started – all he'd felt was the pain of the burn, smelled his flesh, and the past and present had begun to blur together.

 

He leaned over, gripping the counter tightly to prevent himself from slipping back into the past, back into the tombs, back under his father's knife. Moments like these would sneak up on him when he least expected it, and the most he could do was pick himself up and move on.

 

It took him a while to realize he was being watched, turning his head to spot Bakura hovering just outside the kitchen. His housemate was clearly perturbed, the heavy silence hanging over them both like a guillotine.

 

“... The hell was that?”

 

Malik gave a quiet snort, still simmering like the pot he'd thrown against the wall in his fit. He took a few deep breaths before he could find it in himself to answer. “Take a guess.”

 

“You're covered in oil.”

 

Malik glanced down at himself, realizing it was true. Somehow he'd knocked a bottle over, his shirt soiled, the substance running down his arms. Even if it had only occured minutes ago, trying to pick out details from these lapses was difficult. It was all just chaos.

 

So much for dinner. He scoffed in disgust, reaching over to turn off the burner.

 

“I'll clean this up later.” His voice was a quiet grumble as he picked his way over the broken ceramic and glass on the floor. Bakura eyed him warily the whole time.

 

“It sounded like your other personality had returned for a moment.”

 

Malik paused in the doorway. Truthfully, he didn't blame Bakura for the observation. His other personality _was_ him – a broken and corrupted part but undeniably _Malik_ nonetheless – and if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that an empty space in his soul didn't just suddenly fill with light once the darkness had been chased away. There was nothing to push his anger onto and he had to deal with it himself. Thankfully, the outbursts had grown few and far between in recent months, but they were still there as Bakura had just found out.

 

Malik sighed, continuing to the bathroom.

 

“I'm going to wash this off.” He stopped again, throwing a look at Bakura and considering him for a moment. “Join me?”

 

“What?!” Bakura's affronted scowl made Malik roll his eyes. “If that was some attempt at a pickup line-”

 

From the way he was acting, one would have thought Malik had asked him to sleep with him right there. The question must have come across as out of the blue given Malik's recent outburst, but he was really just trying to find something else to focus on. Lingering on the passing fits was never good for him, and he figured he could kill two birds with one stone. He cut off Bakura, in no mood for argument.

 

“How long have you been wearing those clothes?” 'Those clothes' being the spare change of sweatpants and shirt Malik had given him in place of the Thief King's robes. Come to think of it, Malik didn't think he'd ever seen Bakura disappear into the washroom to bathe. “Look, you smell like you died a year ago.”

 

Bakura threw him a facetious little smirk. “That's not exactly untrue, is it?”

 

“Bakura.”

 

“Fine, holy shit.”

 

He must have looked really serious because he didn't think he'd ever seen Bakura agree that quickly. Perhaps it was some latent pity in the thief that was acting up. Whatever the case, Malik lead the way into the bathroom without another word.

 

“That fucking tub is ridiculous.” Bakura broke the silence, eyes trained on the luxurious jacuzzi that had sold Malik this particular apartment in the first place. Despite his bad mood, Malik cracked a smirk as he hit the button that would fill it up with water.

 

“Don't knock it till you try it.” He said as he began to strip, removing his regalia first and wiping off any spots of oil that had gotten onto the gold. After that, he set the gold down on a small towel, hesitating before removing his shirt. It was instinctual more than anything, but he soon remembered it was nothing Bakura hadn't seen before. The pants were a bit more awkward to take off but Malik was tired and truly couldn't have been assed to care. This was his own damn house after all.

 

Bakura had stood near the door the entire time, looking almost uneasy. Malik glanced over to him, unable to resist taking a jab.

 

“Don't tell me you're shy.”

 

Bakura bristled. Malik suspected that if he hadn't already agreed to bathing, he'd call him out on the obvious bait. As it was, Bakura could only defend his pride by showing he wasn't chickening out and huffily beginning to strip as well.

 

“You really think I care about modesty? Do you know what time I'm from?”

 

“Why do you look so scared then?”

 

Bakura squinted at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Malik rolled his eyes yet again. He'd be doing that a lot around his difficult roommate. “I'm not going to try and make a move on you, dumbass. Now get over here so I can wash that bird's nest of hair you've got going on.”

 

The way Bakura seemed to lower his hackles and concede let Malik know he'd been right on the dot. He couldn't quite understand why Bakura would be so cautious about treading on _that_ territory now, however. It wasn't like they hadn't been fooling around in the past, but Bakura seemed wounded somehow.

 

Malik didn't dwell on it. Bakura could work out his own issues with that. He used a cloth to briskly wipe himself down while he waited for Bakura to quit pussyfooting around getting in the tub.

 

As soon as Bakura was in reach, he jerked him over so that his back was facing him, dumping a glob of shampoo straight onto his scalp. Malik set down the bottle, working his irritation into massaging the soap into Bakura's hair and ignoring the little growls his less than gentle treatment earned him. Bakura's hair was thick and coarse and it would take several rinse and repeats until it was cooperating. After about ten minutes, Bakura was quietly tolerating the favour Malik was doing for him.

 

It seemed almost comical in a depressing way. Two of the most dangerous criminals reduced to an awkward silence in a bathtub, licking their wounds in the aftermath of the chaos that had consumed their lives. Bakura snorted, speaking up again after a while.

 

“Surprised you're not mad I brought up your other self.”

 

Malik's shoulders rose in a brief shrug.

 

“You know, the harder you push down something, the harder it will resurface.” He eyed the back of Bakura's head closely, even if the pointed look was probably lost on him given the other man was facing away from him. “I've figured out I can't keep burying him if I want to move on.”

 

Malik's gaze softened. The situation with his other self was a complicated one, and it took a lot to give himself the room to think on it. “He... helped with a lot of things too. All that anger of his... it was my anger. It _is_ my anger.” He gave a heavy exhale through his nose. “Doesn't have many other places to go now.”

 

Aside from at dishes, or glass, or the wall, or anything within reach at the time, always leaving a mess.

 

Bakura didn't have a lot to say to that. Malik couldn't see his expression – was it too much to hope for that Bakura could be considering what he was telling him?

 

“Thought you had it together.”

 

Malik let out a small, bitter laugh, shaking his head. Bakura's perceptions were more skewed than he thought; he must have put up a really convincing front. “I'm good at pretending.” Part of him was annoyed, feeling like Bakura _should_ have known better. “I thought it would be so easy after Battle City but...” he muttered, moving to rinse Bakura's hair with the shower head again, “well, you know how it is.”

 

Once his housemate's hair was sud free, Malik reached over to grab a rag and some body soap and set to work on Bakura's shoulders. This prompted Bakura to twist his body, shooting him a confused scowl.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“May as well wash the rest of you,” Malik replied matter-of-factly. Bakura hadn't made any move to wash himself so someone had to take the initiative.

 

“You said you weren't going to make a move,” Bakura protested.

 

“Still scared about that?” Malik snorted. Bakura sounded like he was about to start up an argument so Malik continued on, cutting him off. “If I wanted to, I could do better than this. And smelling like you rolled in something dead isn't the greatest turn on, believe it or not.”

 

Bakura turned back around to quietly steam in frustration, and that was the end of that.

 

... Or it should have been. Malik wasn't even being rough anymore – he wasn't being sensual either – he was just giving Bakura the cleansing he needed, and yet the men tensed up as though he were yelling at him again. Malik frowned and dropped the rag into the water, using his fingers to knead at the muscles at the back of his neck instead. It was a generous gesture, but he truly didn't want Bakura to be this... unhappy.

 

Bakura didn't relax. In fact, he did the opposite, posture reflexively locking up as if to shut the other man out.

 

Malik sighed, looking at him with a sort of pity.

 

“... You're doing it again.”

 

“Doing what?” Bakura bit back. It wasn't hard to tell he was speaking through his teeth. Without even thinking about it, Malik leaned his forehead against the back of Bakura's head, closing his eyes.

 

“Being afraid of feeling something good for once in your life.”

 

He expected Bakura to shove him away, but the other man remained where he was. The silence lasted a long time, and then Bakura spoke again, voice brittle.

 

“It's confusing.”

 

Malik opened his eyes, raising his head, surprised Bakura was making some effort to reach out to him.

 

“What's confusing?”  
  
Bakura's hands clenched and unclenched beneath the water's surface.

 

“Everything.”

 

Malik was truly beginning to realize Bakura's attitude went far beyond mere stubbornness, even beyond rage. “You have time to think.”

 

“I don't want to think.”

 

“Anger, pain, grief...” Malik ventured further. “Guilt... It's all something you'll have to allow yourself to work through.”

 

Bakura pulled away from him and turned to face him. Malik really wasn't surprised by the hint of a scowl that was there, but he could read Bakura like an open book, see things even the man himself didn't want to recognize. “Why would I feel guilt?”

 

Malik could think of a dozen reasons why he would feel guilt off the top of his head – why he _should_ feel guilt. Perhaps Bakura already knew but wouldn't acknowledge it – can't acknowledge it – a flicker of uncertainty evident in his expression.

 

Malik wasn't interested in drilling him about that matter right now, however.

 

“You have time.” He repeated, stepping forward so he could rest his palms on the shorter man's shoulders. There was no resistence this time. Bakura stood neutral, expression obscured by the hair shielding his face. “Stop fighting it. Trust me, it gets easier when you do so.”

 

And he knew because he spoke from the very same place. Confusion, fury, shame – all of it in the wake of coming down from a power high was a soul crushingly heavy burden to carry. Bakura couldn't hold onto it forever – _no one_ could. He didn't know if Bakura would ever heed his message, even outwardly acknowledge it, but he could only hope that, at the very least, he _heard_ him.

 

“Bakura, it's over. The only one stopping you from moving on is yourself. You need to let it go.”

 

...

 

Another day and Bakura was once again sitting on the couch, staring with dead eyes at the TV until Malik came home. It was becoming a more common occurrance.

 

Malik dropping something on the coffee table before him seemed to snap him out of his daze and he glanced down to see a bag. It was pure white with various things spilling out of it - drawing utensils, sketch pads, even clay by the looks of it. Bakura pulled a face.

 

“The hell is this? I'm not making anything for you.”

 

“Then this might interest you even more.”

 

Malik withdrew something from the other bag he had with him, slamming a two six of vodka down onto the table beside the art supplies. Bakura tilted his head in consideration, vaguely amused eyes flashing up at Malik, and then he'd reached out and snatched the bottle.

 

Two hours later saw them on the floor before the couch, the coffee table shoved out to give them space. They didn't even know why they were on the floor but neither were content on moving. They'd talked well into the evening about anything that seemed interesting, the alcohol carrying along the conversation easier – boring, mundane shit for the most part. But then again, what else could they do now? They weren't the same powerful, dark forces they once had been.

 

Somehow, Bakura had ended up sprawled against Malik's side, eyelids dragged down by the liqour. Where conversation had tapered off, a heavy silence filled the empty space, one neither of them were willing to break for a long while.

 

“Do you really hate that I brought you back?” Malik's voice surprised even himself. Bakura didn't respond for at least a minute, making him think he'd passed out.

 

“You should have minded your own business.”

 

“Maybe I would have if you hadn't sought me out after Battle City.”

 

Malik almost laughed. Both of them were tired, and not just because of the alcohol, words slurring together ridiculously. The most he managed with a puff of air through his nose. Gods, they were fucked out of their minds, weren't they? To be laying together like this on the floor.

 

Bakura shifted his head, a brief indication he was still there. “Your levels of cruelty surprise even me sometimes.”

 

Malik's arm wrapped around the other's waist tighter, fingers idly digging at fabric.

 

“Yes, cruelty. Giving you a home and holding you like this. So cruel.”

 

Bakura almost snorted, but didn't quite have the will too. He was broken open, hardly the incentive to draw away and preserve some sense of pride remaining.“This hurts so much more than the shadows.”

 

“Dying is easy. Living is hard,” Malik answered as though it were a question. He let his head drop back against the couch cushion, face inclining to the side, towards the window. He stared beyond it, to the night sky, to the stars drowned out by the city lights – to another time, simpler and not simpler. A smile vaguely pulled at his lips.

 

“Two Gods, eh? So that didn't happen, but...”

 

His eyes found their way back to Bakura, and he thought it ironic that his partner wouldn't be around to witness the next era, but not in the way he'd previously thought. For someone so set on going into the darkness, he would live in the light. Malik would make sure of it.

 

“Humanity doesn't have to be so bad.”

...

 

Sunlight streamed into the living room, stirring Malik from what was sure to be one hell of a hangover. He groaned. Somehow he'd ended up on his side, awkwardly sprawled against the bottom of the couch. His neck hurt, his scars were irritated, the nerves in his back prickling awfully – it was not an ideal way of waking up for him.

 

And Bakura was no where to be found.

 

Malik dragged a hand through his hair, scowling. The asshole could have at least woken him up so he could have gone to bed.

 

Rolling his eyes and trying to ignore the pounding headache and nausea, he gripped at the couch behind him and pulled himself to his feet. Gods, they must have been really fucked up last night...

 

Something on the table made him stop – or rather, the lack of something. The plastic bag he'd brought the art supplies home in lay there, but most of its supplies were gone. It was like someone had gone through it and looted only what they wanted. A subtle thing, perhaps, but he couldn't help but imagine Bakura rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath as he finally gave in to a pull more rooted in the light. It was a small step, but a step nonetheless.

 

Malik smiled.

 


End file.
